


How Do I King?

by Tiofrean



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn has a dog, Aragorn is not amused, Aragorn's Mating Rituals, Coffee, Developing Relationship, Ficlet Collection, Fluff, Humor, Idiots in Love, Light Bondage, M/M, Mystery, Post-War of the Ring, Rating May Change, Romance, Tags May Change, secret chamber, very light
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-08-02
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:22:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23880745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: A series of ficlets pertaining to Aragorn and Faramir's lives after the War of The Ring with a special focus on Aragorn adjusting to his new role as the King of Gondor. The stories will be in a more or less chronological order. Tags may change and the rating may go up in the future.  I can promise - no dark stuff here.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Faramir (Son of Denethor II), Elrond Peredhel/Lindir
Comments: 24
Kudos: 33





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this collection, other than the bunnies jumping all around me. They demand to be written, and so I shall write. Many thanks to MermaidSheenaz, hir nin, who keeps an eye on my writing and is always ready to smack me if I go overboard or screw up the grammar. 
> 
> Enjoy!

The day was truly beautiful - Anor was shining brightly in the clear sky above his head, the birds were chirping with the newfound hope everyone seemed to have acquired, and Aragorn could not help but think that everything would be alright in the end. The war had ended a little over a month before, and people were slowly settling into the familiar routine of living in the citadel. Minas Tirith was positively swarming with people - some of them locals, some having come from afar, all of them working together to restore what had been damaged during the battle. 

There were two people, however, who were getting on Elessar’s nerves, and it had come as a surprise when Aragorn had realized just how badly he was distraught. 

Éowyn and Faramir… There was nothing wrong with either of Aragorn’s two friends - yes, _friends,_ because he had managed to form a tentative friendship with Faramir, too, over the last two months. If Aragorn was to be honest with himself, he would gladly pursue his steward and turn that friendship into something infinitely more profound - and far more intimate - but there was an obstacle in his way, and the obstacle seemed unmovable. 

Ever since he had laid his eyes on the pale figure in the House of Healing, the king had trouble getting him out of his mind. Immediately upon his return, right after he had been crowned, Aragorn had declared Faramir the Prince of Ithilien, led by the feeling that this young man deserved a lot more than he had been given so far. And Faramir had proved to be competent not only as a prince but also as the Steward of Gondor, single-handedly dealing with all of the political nightmare the war had left Gondor in. 

It was no surprise then that Elessar had found himself falling in love with the young prince, following him everywhere he could and demanding a lot more of Faramir’s time than protocol allowed. It was almost as if Aragorn’s heart - now freed from Arwen’s ethereal charm, for she had sailed away to Valinor - had found itself a new target. A target which was noble and beautiful, strong and yet so modest it left Aragorn stupefied at times. 

A target which was constantly occupied by a certain Lady of Rohan, who was currently walking with the prince in the Royal Gardens, laughing in the sunshine, wearing a dress in a shade of blue that matched the blooming flowers around them perfectly. 

With a sigh, Aragorn looked down, squinting at the too-bright paper he was holding. He had come out to the gardens to collect his thoughts before his afternoon meeting with the lords from Lebennin, who had arrived here to plead their cause in restoring a few villages falling apart. He had only meant to sit down in the quiet of the gardens and make a few notes, hoping that the fresh air would help him clear his mind. He had not foreseen Éowyn and Faramir making good use of the invitation he had extended to them a few weeks prior, offering them unlimited access to the Royal Gardens in case they ever needed to take a break. And so now, whenever he raised his head to let his neck relax a bit, he found himself looking straight at his steward and the Lady of Rohan, laughing and chatting merrily, a certain fondness conveyed in their glances and little touches that set Aragorn’s teeth on edge. 

He longed to know what they were talking about. He needed to be there, to decipher every word the prince was saying, to look for the hidden meaning between the lightly flowing phrases. If there was any chance that Faramir would turn a kind eye upon him and his feelings, it was crucial for Elessar to know about it. 

Sighing, squinting at the merry couple a few yards away from him, the king got up. He left the sheet of paper on the bench he had been occupying, then slowly walked forward, keeping his body shielded by an enormous bush of blackberries growing nearby. 

-&-

“So tell me, my lady, when will Éomer marry?” Faramir asked, glancing at the flower beds at their feet. Éowyn chuckled next to him, reaching out to touch one of the flowers tentatively.  
“I know not. He is still looking for a suitable candidate, it seems. He can be very picky if he wishes to…”  
“I see.” Faramir nodded thoughtfully. Éowyn grinned and poked him in the ribs playfully.  
“You have something in mind, do you not, my lord?” She asked. Faramir smiled.  
“As a matter of fact, I do. There is a fine lady, Lothíriel is her name, and she is the daughter of my uncle Imrahil,” he explained. “She was quite smitten with Éomer when they met in the citadel. I do believe she would be a good candidate…” 

He would not do this normally, he never put his nose into other people’s affairs. But, Lothíriel had been talking his ear off for the past few weeks and he was quite fed up with this situation. He had a country to run - together with their wonderful king - and he could not let himself get distracted with gossip, especially if he was supposed to be the one to provide it. 

“Oh, I think she would be lovely… does she know how to cook, though?” Éowyn worried, continuing their walk along the flowery path. Faramir frowned.  
“I believe she can… I do not see that becoming an issue, however. Éomer will be a king now, surely there are enough cooks in Edoras who can take care of this?”  
“Undoubtedly! But… you see, my lord Faramir, he is a very traditional man, and despite my honest and most valiant attempts, that fool still thinks that every woman should know how to cook and wash clothes, no matter how many maids are there in the castle, or what a woman’s heart tells her to pursue.” 

There was a certain sadness in her voice, and Faramir reached out to embrace her out of instinct. The Lady of Rohan was a formidable warrior, a woman who did not abide by the rules of men, but she still gladly accepted the hug from a friend.  
“I am sure he will fall in love with Lothíriel, do not fret. As for his ways… those may be harder to change, but we shall attempt to do so!” Faramir promised, mentally making a note to talk to Elessar about it. Maybe, between the three of them, they could make Éomer see reason? 

“Thank you, my friend,” Éowyn said softly, withdrawing from the embrace slowly. Faramir was already opening his mouth to offer more optimistic words, when a movement caught his attention. 

There was a curious rustling sound coming from one of the blackberry bushes, a jittery movement of the branches following it, and Faramir stepped between Éowyn and the unknown foe, grabbing his sword automatically. He knew that the lady was trained well enough to defend herself, but currently, he was the only one carrying any weapons - an old habit not easily broken - so he felt it his duty to fight if needed be. Whether it was an animal or a thief, Faramir would not let such a thing pass, and in the Royal Gardens! 

“Show yourself!” He barked at the bush, narrowing his eyes and preparing to strike whatever came out with his blade. The branches fell still for a moment. “Come out!” Faramir shouted.  
“I can’t,” came the quiet reply, and the prince’s eyes widened. He recognized the voice instantly. But how-

“I’m stuck!” The voice said again, a bit louder now. Incredulous, Faramir took a step closer to the bush and, using the blade of his sword, he lifted a few leaves, revealing-  
“My king?!” To say that he was surprised would be the understatement of the century… maybe a few centuries, even. _A whole age, most likely._

“Sire? What are you doing here?” He asked, sheathing his sword, before he started to pull away branches and leaves alike, revealing king Elessar with his robes twisted in the little thorns.  
“Getting stuck in blackberries, apparently. Good morning, Éowyn,” Aragorn grumbled, waving a hand in her direction, his palm smeared with dark red juice of the almost ripe fruit. Éowyn laughed merrily, then stepped closer to help Faramir disentangle their king. 

Once he was out of the bushes - literally - Aragorn stood in front of them, sheepishly looking down at his ruined clothes. He had had his share of trudging through dense forests, sometimes even through thorny branches, but he had always been wearing his ranger garb. It seemed that his old raggy clothes had been more effective than those pristine, velvety robes that got tangled at the first chance they had, effectively immobilizing him between sticky berries. 

“Thank you,” the king said finally, looking up sharply when Éowyn giggled. She bit her lip to stave off the merriment, but there was no use - her eyes were laughing at him. Faramir, on the other hand, looked more confused than ever.  
“Sire?” He asked tentatively, his eyes wide. “What were you doing in there?” 

Feeling himself blush furiously, Aragorn raked his brain for an appropriate answer. _I was jealous so I tried to follow you_ did not seem like a good thing to be said, so he knew he had to find something else. Something believable. Something that would not require the Lady of Rohan explaining it later to Faramir in her own words and, going by the glimmer in her eyes, with her own details. That woman was way too observant, and Aragorn found himself in quite a predicament. 

Thankfully, a bell announcing the end of the recess sounded above them, and Aragorn heaved in a deep breath.  
“I would love to stay here and talk, but I’m afraid I am needed in the Great Hall,” he said, excusing himself politely and even going as far as giving his two friends a small bow. He only hoped that they would forget about the whole accident, lest he die of shame the next time he had dinner with them.


	2. Chapter 2

It had happened a few times. Not a lot, it was not something that was particularly noticeable, but Faramir was observant. Especially when it came to their king. He had spent a stupidly long time staring at Elessar, and an even longer time sitting with him at councils and other meetings. It was of no surprise, really - he was the Steward of Gondor,  it was his job to follow the king everywhere he went. And if he spent a good deal of that time watching their liege, well… who could blame him? The king was a handsome man - a thing easily noticeable to anyone possessing a pair of working eyes. But, there had been something else that had drawn Faramir to Aragorn, something he could not really explain until it had been too late and he had fallen head over heels in love with their king. Perhaps it was Aragorn’s smile? Or the kindness in his eyes? Or the wisdom Elessar seemed to possess? 

The wisdom that was nowhere to be seen now, when he was looking around with confused eyes, standing near the entrance to the library, a few yards ahead of his steward. 

Faramir frowned, pausing his steps and observing his king. Aragorn looked  _ lost, _ gazing at the various doors and paintings hanging next to them as if he had not expected them to be there in the first place. Worried, Faramir walked closer slowly.    
“Sire?” 

The king jumped up, startled, twirling around and fixing the steward with a wide-eyed stare. He seemed so young in that moment, Faramir’s breath caught in his chest.   
“Faramir!” The moment passed, and the king schooled his features again, looking nothing out of the norm. His usual smile was back in place, his eyes glittering warmly, and Faramir would have sworn he had imagined the whole scene, had it not been for the fact that the king turned back around and almost walked into a wall. He stopped himself just in time, halting his steps with a jerky movement that did not go unnoticed. 

“My king… what are you doing here?” Faramir asked, genuinely curious. Elessar sighed, but turned to face him again.    
“I... merely wanted to put this book back into its rightful place,” the king stated, inclining his head at the entrance to the library. Faramir frowned, eyeing the tome speculatively, but decided not to bring his worries up. 

_ He had handed it to Elessar less than two hours ago. It was not possible that he could have read it already.  _

“Of course, my lord…”   
“Faramir,” Aragorn started, his voice sounding of mock-tiredness. “How many times do I have to remind you to call me by my name?”    
“I am sorry, but old habits die hard,” the steward apologized, smiling bashfully. He received a grin in answer, and a small shake of Aragorn’s head.    
“I know what can help with that! I have a decanter of wine that is waiting to be sampled in my study… what say you, Faramir?” 

The steward pretended to think it over, but he knew that this was the finest way the evening could end with. He nodded finally, but cast a brief glance to the book still gripped tightly within Aragorn’s left hand.    
“What about  _ The History of the Gondorian Navy?” _ He asked. Aragorn shook his head and waved him off.    
“I can return it later, it is of no consequence. Come!” He prompted, finally making Faramir move. The younger man started first, leading them, only realizing that he was doing so after they had walked down half of the corridor’s length. It was not the proper way of conduct - to be stepping in front of one’s king - and Faramir cast a shy glance over his shoulder, hoping Aragorn would not mind this little slip of protocol. 

The king seemed too engrossed in every detail of the walls around them, scrutinizing each one of them as if he was…  _ what? _ What exactly  _ was _ Aragorn doing? Faramir frowned, looking at one of the tapestries hiding the seam between the new and the ancient part of the recently renovated wall. For the lack of anything better to say, Faramir mentioned that little fact aloud.    
“This wall had been rebuilt a few years back... It changed the layout of the corridors slightly… It can get confusing sometimes,” he said, not really knowing where he was going with it.

There was a sudden inhale behind him, and then Elessar huffed out almost incredulously.    
“Are you implying I got lost in my own castle?” He asked,  the tone of his voice imploring that this was exactly what had happened, but that it would be better if none of them mentioned it ever again. Faramir looked back ahead, biting his lip to stop himself from chuckling. 

There was something completely endearing about Aragorn losing his way in his own citadel, and if Faramir was not careful, his meticulously maintained control would slip and he would do something utterly stupid, like laugh at his king. Or turn around and _kiss him._   
“I am not implying anything, Aragorn. I am merely making an observation,” he placated Elessar, turning right behind the next doorway. They were close to Aragorn’s private wing, and the older man seemed to recognize his surroundings now, for he sped up and overtook Faramir just in time to open the doors to the royal quarters. 

Faramir beamed at him when he stepped through, promising himself to keep an eye on his king, just in case he lost his way again in the future. And if the next time he was needed - in the second level of the city, steering Aragorn away from a dead-end street and closer to the small but well-kept tavern he had frequented as Thorongil - he dared to grin brightly, Aragorn did not comment on that other than with a small smile of his own. 


	3. Chapter 3

Kings were a busy lot - as Aragorn had the occasion to see for himself. He had been so taken up with various requests from Gondorians that he barely had time to sleep or eat.  _ Or to go to the library. _ Especially that last part seemed to be crucial to his wellbeing, seeing as he tried to woo a certain Steward of Gondor, and he knew that poetry was the best way to do it. It was the way he had been taught in Elrond’s house, after all, and he saw no other possibility. 

And so, the High King Elessar Telcontar had dedicated himself to dusting off every ancient tome of poetry he could find, browsing through them and taking out verses he considered appropriate for his purpose of sweeping Faramir off his feet. Once he had the romantically sounded fragments memorised, he would try to weave them into their conversation, very often paraphrasing what he could, not even bothering to stop his smile from spreading across his face every time Faramir’s eyes widened. Aragorn felt that he was doing something right, he sensed himself getting closer to his goal of showing his steward exactly in what capacity the king needed him. Hopefully it would be enough to get Faramir to turn a kind eye upon him… 

That is, until they were seated one evening in Aragorn’s study, enjoying the privacy of the royal wing, chatting as they were about a small stream that had a great potential if its course could be changed.  Faramir had just proposed a quite complicated setup involving only the bare minimum of work and a lot of knowledge of the land the young man seemed to possess in indefinite quantities, and Aragorn was so impressed that he just sat there for a moment, speechless.  When he finally found his voice, it was to quote another line he had read in the library earlier.    
_ “Heart of gold and mind as sharp as glinting steel… _ Faramir, you are a genius!” Elessar exclaimed, his gaze flickering between a very rough and hurried sketch the steward had drawn, and his beautiful face.  _ Aragorn could spend eternity kissing those cheeks… those lips!  _

The same lips that were curving up in  a dangerous smirk - dangerous for two reasons. One - it looked completely astonishing on Faramir, and two - it meant that the young steward was trying his hardest not to laugh aloud. The king narrowed his eyes suspiciously, his eyebrows drawing together.    
“Is something the matter?” He asked slowly, feeling that something surely  _ was. _

As soon as the question was out, Faramir burst out laughing. The sound was short and barked out, but it was laughter indeed, and Aragorn squinted harder.    
“I am sorry,” the steward apologized, barely reining his merriment in. His eyes were glittering curiously, and Aragorn’s frown deepened. He knew just how helpless one could be to a fit of laughter, but what had caused it in the first place?    
“Care to explain it to me, my dear friend?” The king asked, but Faramir’s good humor was spreading, and he found himself smiling, too. Faramir shook his head slightly.    
“‘Tis nothing, my king,” he said, his voice light. “Just… That poem you quoted yesterday? It was about a soldier who died in battle. I know it well, it was the only poem Boromir had ever read willingly. The one before that, during our dinner two days ago - it was describing an honorable warrior who later turned out to be a right weasel.” 

Hearing that, Aragorn felt mildly surprised. He knew that not all of the lines he had memorised came from romantic poems, but to be informed about their origins, and by the very person he wanted to impress…    
“And this fine piece you have quoted just now?” Faramir went on, grinning, “it pertains to a beautiful queen who murdered her husband in cold blood.” 

Aragorn inhaled sharply, his eyes widening in horror.  _ Had he been quoting dreadful recounts all that time? And to woo his prince, nonetheless?  _ It was an unpleasant surprise, made even worse by the prospect of losing his chance in Faramir’s eyes. It dawned on him that such a flagrant disregard of courting customs he had been taught might forfeit his future with the young steward. Killing had no place in romancing, after all, and he doubted that Faramir would appreciate his tries now that he had found out just how clumsy Aragorn had been. 

Finding himself in a figurative pit, the king promptly busied himself with a loose thread in his shirt, tugging at it without a care. He would - quite possibly - ruin it if he went on like this, but that hardly seemed to matter. He had embarrassed himself in front of Faramir, and the chances for a happy ending were dwindling more and more by the minute. 

Unexpectedly, a hand appeared, covering his and stilling his restless fingers. Surprised, still feeling anxious, Aragorn looked up, only to be met with the blue sea of Faramir’s eyes. He swallowed heavily when he realized that the steward’s eyes didn’t have a trace of disappointment in them - quite the contrary, they appeared happy, glimmering merrily in the half-darkness around them.    
“I am no Elf maiden, my king, you don't need to serenade me,”  Faramir said slowly, but there was a tone of laughter in his voice. “Or rather... Please don't do that, because you're quite terrible at this.” 

Before the king could react, before he could as much as process Faramir’s words, the young prince leaned in and placed a soft kiss upon his lips, as chaste as if  _ Aragorn _ was the Elf maiden in question. It was over as soon as it started, making the king follow him blindly when he drew back to look at him.    
“Faramir…” He breathed out, licking his lips and trying to make sense of the jumble of thoughts flooding his mind. His prince had just kissed him and - dear Valar! - Aragorn could feel the kiss still upon his mouth, a tingling ghost of a sensation he would be chasing for the rest of the night. 

“I hope I have not misunderstood, my king…” Faramir looked at him, biting his lip for a brief moment. “All those days you have stumbled upon me in the gardens just to spend the rest of the afternoon with me… and the dinners and meetings right after breakfast…” The steward went on quietly, his eyes busy searching Aragorn’s face, and the king couldn’t stop staring at him.    
“Faramir.” He tried again, not really certain as to what he wanted to say at all. It seemed that the only thing his mouth could come up with was Faramir’s name. Which suited him just fine, as long as they wouldn’t go back to longing looks. Now that Aragorn had glimpsed at how it could be with Faramir, when he sampled - briefly, too briefly - the deliciousness of his steward, he couldn’t imagine never having that again.

“Tell me I have not missed my mark,” Faramir pleaded quietly, his words strangely tentative. Aragorn shook his head.    
“No. No, no! I…  _ Faramir.” _ Ah, how curious. A king that loses his faculties as soon as he is kissed by a prince. 

Aragorn shook his head again, hoping in vain to clear it, then sighed heavily.    
“Come here,” he requested and, not waiting for Faramir’s reaction, reached out for him and tugged him close. This time, the kiss was slower, longer… an eternity locked up in a short sliver of time, taken out of it and making their heads spin.

When they parted, Aragorn was surprised to discover that despite his sudden illiteracy, Faramir appeared to have gotten his message just right - he was sitting there, a brilliant grin stretching his lips and making the king smile, too. 

Much later, when the night was slowly turning into day, the king realized that they didn’t need many words to communicate. Gone were romantic poems and seriously sounding verses, chased away by quiet pleas and gentle reassurances. And if Aragorn ever felt the need to quote another passage from some awful tome, Faramir just rolled his eyes and laughed, before he did his best to shut his king up with a kiss. 


	4. Chapter 4

Aragorn was vaguely aware that the room around him was already basking in bright sunlight. He knew the maids were bustling about, he had heard the knocking and thumping and hurried footsteps coming from the study adjacent to his bedchamber. Somehow, his consciousness didn’t surface for a long time, despite Faramir’s attempts at rousing him, and he let himself stretch lazily in the spacious bed - one of the many luxuries acquired with the title of the King of Gondor. 

With the title, there also came other perks - silky smooth sheets over which he was running his fingers now, fluffy pillows hoarded by Faramir lying right next to him, soft robes with intricate patterns made to appease even the most stern Council members-

Aragorn jolted, then sat upright, eyes opening wide. He had a Council meeting with the Lords of Belfalas in the morning... He glanced hurriedly at the window, taking in the glare of Anor flowing into the room through curtains opened wide…  _ By Eru! He was late! _

It was possible that only years of living outside cities, where trouble found everyone equally, gave Aragorn the ability to go from mostly asleep to perfectly awake in a blink of an eye. He was up and out of bed in seconds, dashing to the bathing chamber first, then rushing to his wardrobe. There was no set of clothes prepared - he had explicitly stated that he would dress himself, king or no king - so he had to dig something out hastily. It took him a brief moment to decide, before he was pulling on a long, black tunic with the White Tree embroidered on it in a startling grey hue. He counted it as good luck when he found a pair of matching gray breeches and a robe of the same color, neatly folded underneath the tunic. There was a cloak hanging on the side and it looked to be made of the same material as the robes, also gray with the tree embroidered on it in black this time. 

Shrugging, Aragorn took it also, then called for his page to help him fasten it. At the last moment, remembering the still sleeping Faramir, he decided to finish his dressing in the study. With a sigh and a longing glance towards two blue eyes blinking at him sleepily from the bed, Aragorn walked out, hoping he wouldn’t be tactlessly late. 

-&-

Faramir looked at the door behind which the king had disappeared. He had a moment of clarity where his sleep-laden brain finally connected what was so strange about Aragorn’s clothes on that morning, but he could not bring himself to chase after him. 

The steward had spent a week looking for the one book that held all the secrets of court etiquette, and once he had found it - in a remote corner of their vast library - he had sat Aragorn down with him and explained what he could. What he couldn’t, for there never seemed to be enough time for that, he instructed Aragorn to read on his own. 

_ From his choice of clothes, it was clear that the king hadn’t even glimpsed the rest of the fat tome residing on his desk.  _

With a sigh, Faramir plopped back down on the bed. It was good that he wasn’t needed during this particular meeting. If the king didn’t want to listen to him, maybe a bit of embarrassment would do him good. 

-&-

In the beginning, it was not so obvious, but as the day went on, the curious behaviour of his councillors turned into something Aragorn could only describe as bizarre. He had been glad when, upon his unpunctual arrival, there had been no comments, even quietly murmured ones, but the overwhelming silence he had been met with had been unsettling. And the happenings only turned weirder from there - deep bows from everyone, looks of sympathy wherever his gaze wandered, a Council member making excuses  _ for him _ for his tardiness and his irresponsible sleeping-in on that morning… 

_ We understand your position, your highness… Maybe we should postpone the meeting to a more suitable time? _

Aragorn had declared that he was fine - with no amount of confusion - and they proceeded, but he couldn’t shake off the feeling that he was being coddled like a small child. The pondering of the strange situation in his own court took his focus off the matters at hand, and he was forced to read the notes pushed under his nose to keep up. It wasn’t until the recess that he finally had some time to think everything over in peace and quiet. 

His first choice was, naturally, to go to a little adjacent room and from there, to a small balcony overlooking one of the gardens. His hopes at some quietude vanished, however, when one of the Council members followed, trailing his steps until Elessar was forced to acknowledge him.    
“What is it Beregost?” He asked, only slightly irritated at having been interrupted. He was just about to take out his pipe, and the company of another would probably ruin his attempt at finding some solace in the habits of old. Beregost bowed deeply and his face took on a look of someone so deeply sorry they could crumble at the tiniest whiff of a breeze. 

“I beg your pardon, sire! I only wanted to give you my sincerest condolences,” he said, his features transforming into a grimace of sympathetic pain, and Aragorn almost dropped the pipe he was holding.    
“Condolences? Did someone die and I haven’t been informed?” He asked, frowning, wondering what poor soul had gone to Mandos’ Halls this time. They were well after the war not to worry about the wounded dying, and to his best knowledge, all his dear friends were in good health.  _ Had there been an accident?  _

“I…” Beregost hesitated. “Excuse me, my king,” he muttered, then bowed again and walked away without another word. Aragorn stood there, stupefied, staring at the door as it closed. 

-&-

“We must talk,” Aragorn hissed, grabbing Faramir by his arm and steering him away from the small gathering of lords he had been talking to. It was well into the afternoon, and the king figured he could comfortably slip away with his steward to discuss some matters of import to Gondor. Or at least that was what he hoped it looked like, for he wasn’t keen on standing there and waiting for whatever talk Faramir was submerged in to drag slowly to its natural end. With a confused stare, the steward let himself be walked to the king’s study without much protest. 

As soon as Aragorn had him inside, he bolted the door closed, then walked to the desk. He waved at Faramir to take one of the chairs, but remained standing himself, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose. With a sigh, he ran his fingers over his face tiredly, then took off the crown and flung it on the desk. Seeing this, Faramir picked it up gingerly, then placed it carefully upon a cushion designed specifically for this purpose, sending Aragorn a disapproving look. 

“What has gotten you into such a foul mood? I’ve heard that the talks with Belfalas went rather well…”    
“The talks might have gone well,” Aragorn agreed with a nod, then sat down in his own chair. “I cannot say, I couldn’t focus.”    
“Oh.” Faramir blinked stupidly for a moment. “Why? Did something happen?”    
“I know not… I was hoping you would tell me, actually.” With that, Aragorn looked right at him, his piercing gaze as keen as always. Looking into his king’s eyes, feeling that stare focused on himself, Faramir couldn’t stop a shiver trickling down his spine.    
“My king?”    
“Did anyone… Did anyone die recently, Faramir?” He asked, and the steward frowned, trying to recall whether he had heard any unsettling news, but his mind came with nothing as disastrous as death. He shook his head quickly.    
“Not to my knowledge, no. Why do you ask? Have you heard anything of such happenings?” 

The king pondered it over, then shrugged.    
“The Council acted mighty strange today, Faramir. All the members were way too quiet and far too forgiving. They all looked at me with sympathy befitting a bereaved man, and I still do not know as to the reason-  _ Faramir?” _ He asked, staring wide-eyed at the younger man. 

Faramir bit his lip in a feeble attempt at stopping laughter from bubbling out of him, but there was no use. Soon, he was doubling over, dissolving into hiccups, his whole body shaking with mirth. He felt a bit bad about his merriment when he raised his gaze to Aragorn, but the confusion on his king’s face was so comical, it only brought on a fresh wave of uncontrollable giggles. 

Aragorn just sat there, waiting patiently until the prince calmed down, before he asked again, trying to keep his composure - Faramir’s laughter, as uncontrollable as this, never failed to amaze and amuse him, and it was a fight not to laugh along with him, even though he was still unsure as to the cause.    
“Can you please explain to me what is so funny?” 

It took Faramir three deep breaths, and a hurried swipe of his hand over his face to get rid of the tears glimmering on his cheeks, before he could speak evenly enough to be understood properly.    
“My king… you have not read the book I have left you on your desk, have you?” He asked back, grinning and making Aragorn frown.    
“Which book would that be?”    
“The one bound in gray leather… That fat tome filled with treaties on  _ court etiquette,” _ Faramir explained, his smile widening even more as Aragorn’s eyes gained a light of revelation.    
“Oh  _ that _ one! No I have not… But what has it to do with today’s Council?”    
“Why, my king! You are wearing the  _ mourning  _ robes of the King of Gondor!” And with that, the steward dissolved into another bout of giggles, wrapping his arms around his middle when his body protested the strain of muscles. 

Aragorn sat there, his mouth open, ready to say something… something… He shut his lips in the end, shaking his head and deciding to give the book a try. Going by Faramir’s merriment, this day would never be forgotten, but he could at least make sure not to repeat it in the foreseeable future. 


	5. Chapter 5

Faramir could not remember the last time he had felt so angry.  It was refreshing really, it was such a lively emotion… But, apart from making his blood run quicker and his muscles tighten, it also made him surprisingly loud. So loud that, once he stepped into the citadel, he started talking to Aragorn before he even turned his steps down a long corridor leading to one of the private drawing rooms. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed the king sitting in one of the armchairs, the one closer to the open entryway. Faramir couldn’t see anything else, so he hoped that Aragorn was already finished with dinner. 

“You wouldn’t believe what this wool-headed ass told me!” He seethed, raising his voice only minimally. It wasn’t exactly necessary, because their ranger-turned-king had a great hearing. Still, it made the prince feel a bit better. “I swear to Eru, he should get his poncy ass out of the Council. Better yet, he should hoof it out of Minas Tirith!” He continued, marching down the corridor. Aragorn must have heard him, because the king turned his head to the side, staring at Faramir in surprise. 

“And the audacity of him! What an absolute sarding asshole! Curse him and his stupidity. His mother should be ashamed to have conceived such a donkey! Do you know, my king,” Faramir inquired, a couple of steps away from the doorway, “that this blithering fool expects us to be as witless as-” 

And then he froze, one foot in the drawing room, his head turned to the side, eyes widening. 

There, on a comfortable sofa, in light robes standing out from the dark upholstery, tucked neatly between two White Tree emblems,  was nobody else, but Elrond Peredhel, his piercing gaze glued to Faramir. A bit to his right, in one of the ornate chairs the steward favored, Lindir was seated, the half-elf’s trusted senechal.    
“My Lord Elrond!” Faramir cried out, then bowed deep, biting his lip.    
“I can see,” the king said calmly, “you have not been informed as to the reason for the change in the meeting place for our dinner.” 

Faramir glanced at him, then studiously looked ahead, frowning at the smirk gracing Aragorn’s lips. The king hummed quietly.    
“Elrond and Lindir decided to pay us a visit, despite the snows covering the roads. They will stay for the Yule festival, which, as I’m sure you’ll remember, Pippin and Merry have offered to organize. Now… Care to elaborate on that  _ donkey, _ steward mine?” He asked, and there was amusement in his voice, which eased Faramir’s mind a bit. He coughed, clearing his throat, then looked at Elrond apologetically.    
“Please, excuse me my crass language,” he told the lord sincerely, to which he received a dismissive wave of an elegant hand.    
“Faramir,” Elrond said levelly, “I know you to be the most level-headed man in this city. If anything threw you off that much, I am sure it must have been grave.”    
“Please, sit down, have some wine and tell us of the trouble.” Aragorn bid him over, patting a chair next to him. With a sigh, the prince sat down, then took a few rushed sips from the cup he was offered. 

“So, what happened?” The king asked curiously, his expression one of worry.    
“I talked to that idiot about the situation in the second level,” Faramir groused, and Aragorn frowned.    
“What idiot?”    
“Imhor.”    
“Ah.” The king leaned back, already getting the picture. Imhor was one of the older Council Members, seated there more thanks to his birthright than because of his usefulness. He was opinionated and bull-headed, and often made Aragorn scratch his head in confusion or exasperation when he overstepped the boundaries of good taste due to his entitlement. “Please, go on.”    
“As you know, there is a wood shortage in the second level. Most of it was consumed by post-war repairs,” Faramir added, for Elrond’s benefit. The lord nodded for him to continue. “I decided to talk to Imhor, since it is his duty to overlook the second level, and thus, find some kind of a solution to the most pending of troubles - people are freezing in their homes. There is not enough wood to sustain them and the nights are slowly getting too cold to survive with blankets only.” With a defeated sigh, the prince leaned back, looking at Aragorn. “Do you know what he had the audacity to tell me?” 

When a curious eyebrow was raised, half in disbelief and half in disapproval -  _ nobody should oppose the Steward of Gondor _ \- Faramir finally seethed out Imhor’s answer.    
“Why, he told me they could use books and  _ burn them _ for warmth!” 

Surprisingly, the shocking gasp that followed the statement did not come from Aragorn, but from Lindir, who almost choked on a pastry he had been eating. Elrond looked at him with concern, but smirked when the young elf’s expression turned from bewilderment to anger.    
“What?!” He almost shouted, horrified, before he turned to Faramir. “How could he even suggest that! What a dull nitwit!” 

The insult was so unexpected that Aragorn barked out a laugh, throwing his head back and closing his eyes in merriment. When he opened them again, Faramir and Lindir were exchanging different epithets concerning Imhor, while Elrond watched him from across the table with an amused glimmer in his gaze.    
“To think our tastes are so similar!” The king told him, to which Faramir perked up.    
“What?” He asked, confused, but Aragorn only shook his head and stood up.    
“Nothing, my dear. Come, let’s set this right so that we may continue our dinner in peace. Elrond has some good news regarding our Houses of Healing.”

Faramir got to his feet swiftly, not keen on making the king wait, but Aragorn’s words made him pause. The mention of the Houses of Healing caught his attention, and he glanced between his king and the high lord inquiringly.    
“Good news?”   
“Aye,” Elrond confirmed. “Since there is nothing holding me back in Imladris, seeing as my daughter has already sailed, I have decided to spend the next year in Minas Tirith. Aragorn has told me about the dismal state of the House of Remedies, so I took it upon myself to teach the healers as much as I can.” As he explained, the king nodded along, joining in after Elrond was done.    
“I also thought about the southern part of Ithilien and the fields you’ve told me about. Ada thinks it may be possible to turn one of them into a herbal garden, which would supply the healers with all the necessary plants.”    
“Truly?” Faramir asked, a bit wide-eyed. The unused fields were mostly forgotten about, their crops left to rot and grow over with grass. He had wanted to do something with them for a long time, but there had never been a good idea. 

“Yes,” Aragorn confirmed with a smile. “But first, let us go and talk to a certain donkey.” 

-&-

When Aragorn marched into the common room in the High Guest House,  there were only two reactions he provoked - happiness when people spotted him, and fear, when they saw the thunderous expression on his face. Wordlessly, he directed his steps upstairs, to where a spacious lounge was located. He had been told by the guards that Imhor was to be found there, so he wasted no time for pleasantries. Faramir followed him quietly. 

The door to the lounge was ajar and inside Imhor was seated on a comfortable sofa, reading a book. He stood up hastily when he saw the king, then bowed low.    
“King Elessar! Prince Faramir!” He said reverently, and Aragorn almost winced at the false tone.    
“My lord,” he said, after Imhor straightened out. “I have come to see you about a very important matter of illiteracy.” 

To this, Imhor frowned, confused. He looked at the book, then back at Aragorn and Faramir.    
“How can I help, my lords?” He asked carefully, to which the king shrugged.    
“Ah, see, my lord, I have decreed that every able person in Minas Tirith was to be taught how to read and write,” Aragorn started, and Faramir smirked seeing the bewildered look on Imhor’s face. “But there seems to be a problem with that.”    
“A problem, my king?”    
“Yes. The citizens living on the second level took to burning books. Do you, by any chance, know something about it?” 

Imhor’s face was blank for a few moments, before his cheeks turned first white, then red. He lowered his gaze, looking for all the world like a chastised maid. Faramir had to bite his lip not to laugh aloud. Aragorn seemed to be more composed, thankfully, and his voice remained stern.    
“Do you want to donate your collection to the pyre? Or did you make a horrible mistake and will now go and remedy it?” The king prodded, almost in a growl. Imhor nodded rapidly.    
“Yes, my king. Right away.” 

As he turned to leave - with a deep bow and a murderous look thrown Faramir’s way - Aragorn gave his prince a rueful smile. To Imhor’s retreating back, he nearly shouted, “And remember, if there isn’t a sufficient amount of wood to tide my people over, I’ll send the whole Royal Guard for  _ your  _ books and furniture!” 

This time, Faramir laughed, watching as the lord scrambled away to do as he was told. With glimmer in their eyes and smiles on their lips, they returned to Elrond and Lindir, and to their already-cold dinner. 


	6. Chapter 6

“Do people even  _ do that?” _ Aragorn’s voice sounded equally amused and curious, his eyes focused on one of the images in the ancient book. He turned it to the side, then to the other, mouth open in astonishment. Faramir laughed merrily.    
“They sure do! Or at least they  _ did _ at some point in the past, seeing as this drawing is about two hundred years old,” he pointed out, grinning. The king licked his lips and hummed, turning the page. Another picture appeared, and Aragorn’s eyebrow quirked up.    
“Really? That looks… exhausting.” 

And it was - two men depicted on the drawing vaguely resembled a knight riding a horse, though the stand-in for the horse was all wrong. His back was turned to the ground and he looked more like a crab trying to hold itself up on a slippery deck of a ship, something Aragorn had seen many years ago while serving in the Royal Navy of Gondor.  He winced just imagining holding that particular position for longer than a few moments, his own back protesting the very thought of it with a ghost of a pain. 

“Well, we do not need to concern ourselves with this one… look here,” Faramir prompted, turning the page, showing his king another picture. This time, the king smiled, nodding in approval. 

-&-

_ Two days earlier…  _

Faramir had found the chamber by accident. He didn’t even know what was inside, not in the beginning. He was so busy looking for an ancient peace treaty with Rohan -  something not very important in the light of the recent ending of the War of the Ring, but a valuable part of Gondor’s history, nevertheless \- that he didn’t notice the strange door hidden in his father’s former quarters. 

Not at first. 

He wouldn’t even be there if not for that blasted treaty… Aragorn had chosen another wing of the palace to sleep in, and after he had wooed Faramir into joining him, the steward had little reason to dwell in the past and in his deceased family’s previous chambers. 

But, the treaty had not been in the library, nor had it been in the king’s study, and so Faramir - fuming and cursing under his breath - had wandered into his father’s rooms, intent on retrieving the old piece of parchment and leaving as soon as possible. 

It took him two hours to go through all the documents stashed inside Denethor’s chamber, but fortunately, he finally found what he was looking for. Ready to depart, a rolled-up parchment gripped securely in his hand, Faramir paused by the desk, his gaze stuck to a bookshelf in the room’s corner. The shelf was rather big, overflowing with books, but it was not what caught his attention. Right next to it, a barely visible crack in the wall could be seen, completely vertical and no bigger than a few sheets of paper stacked together. 

Curious, Faramir walked closer, fingering the edge of the crack. It was about as tall as a door could be, and he frowned, thinking back to his childhood.  He couldn’t remember a door ever being there, but then again, he had not been there a lot as a child.  With his father’s resentment dictating their household rules, he had steered clear of Denethor for as long as he could. 

Intrigued, Faramir placed the treaty on the desk, then got to work on unburying the door. It took him almost an hour to relocate all the books resting on the shelf, but finally, he was able to move the furniture aside. The door was there, disguised so it would look like the rest of the tapestried wall, with an ornate knob and a little keyhole below it, previously hidden behind old tomes. The steward tried it, but the door was locked. Frowning, wondering what could possibly be inside, he took the previously found treaty and walked out, promising himself to come back and investigate. 

-&\- 

It wasn’t until late in the evening when he finally had time to speak about it with Aragorn. He had tried all the keys in their possession, but none of them seemed to fit. Feeling curiosity eating him from the inside, Faramir brought the topic up during their late supper. It was a shame that Lord Elrond and Lindir had decided to visit Legolas in the northern part of Ithilien - he could use their insight.

“I have encountered something truly interesting today,” the prince started, watching Aragorn’s eyebrows rise.   
“Oh? Pray tell!” Elessar inquired, stuffing his mouth full with a baked apple. A drop of sweet juice ran down his chin and Faramir was momentarily distracted following its course, until his king’s voice brought him back to the matter at hand. “Well?”   
“Ah! I’ve been looking for that Rohan treaty we wanted to show to the dignitaries from Edoras on their next visit, and I had to wander into my father’s chambers to find it…”   
“I thought it was supposed to be in the library!” Aragorn grumbled, displeased. He was well aware that Denethor was a sore spot for his lover, and he liked to avoid the topic entirely if he could, not keen on upsetting his steward. Faramir shrugged. 

“Turns out my father was not very orderly when it came to documents,” he commented snidely. “Anyway, I found it. And something else, too.” He looked at the king with an earnest expression on his face, and Aragorn smirked.    
“Judging by your excitement, I’d say it was a great book you found!”    
“Nay… not a book, no. A  _ hidden chamber, _ by the looks of it!” Faramir explained, pulling his chair closer. “It was concealed by a shelf, and I wasted an hour removing the books just to push it away. The door is covered in tapestry, so that it wouldn’t stand out against the rest of the wall…”    
“What was inside?” Aragorn interrupted, intrigued.    
“That is exactly the problem! There’s a keyhole, but none of the keys we have fits. I even tried the ones from the other wings, thinking it might have been misplaced, but no luck so far.”    
“Hmm…” Aragorn hummed thoughtfully, skewering a piece of apple with the tip of a knife and biting into it slowly. 

“What do you reckon could be inside?” He asked around the fruit, frowning. Faramir bit his lip, thinking hard. _What could his father have hidden inside a secret chamber, indeed?_  
“I know not, but if there is anything there, someone went to great lengths to keep it away…”   
“We should investigate!” Aragorn exclaimed, sounding as eager as a little boy would after receiving a treasure map. Faramir shook his head.   
“And do what? None of the keys fit… It would be a shame to break such a well constructed door. You never know - it might be useful.”   
“Very true… But! What if there are some interesting things inside? Maybe a map of a long-forgotten realm? Or a treasure? Or-”   
“I am _never_ letting you read any of my books ever again,” Faramir said, grinning, making the king laugh merrily.   
“It is only your fault, dear-heart, that this old fool has found a taste for romance out of royal boredom!” He teased, grabbing his cup and sipping on some Dorwinion wine. Faramir did the same, still thinking about the conundrum of the hidden door. 

If his father had been the one to hide the chamber, there surely had been people who had known about this at the time - there was no possibility of Denethor doing the construction himself, after all. And if there had been people, maybe they were still around? He should ask about it, starting with the Royal Guard… 

“Maybe we should ask Idhor?” Aragorn suggested,  as always following the same path Faramir’s thoughts took. The steward frowned.    
“Idhor? But my father detested him! He had been a part of the Council long before I was born, and even then my father and him weren’t on friendly grounds! Imhor, his brother, had been my father’s favorite.”    
“All the more reason for him to know something,” Aragorn explained, nodding.  “Think about it - who knows more about a person than one who has a reason to gossip about them?”

Aragorn’s thinking was sound, Faramir had to agree. He shrugged.    
“It wouldn’t hurt any to try.”    
“We can ask him tomorrow during breakfast.”    
“Alright,” Faramir said, nodding. Aragorn went back to the apples, and the steward couldn’t help himself stealing the next piece that landed on the tip of the knife, much to Aragorn’s amusement. Munching on it thoughtfully, he tried not to let his imagination run wild. 

-&-

“Ah, yes, the hidden chamber.” Idhor nodded, running his hand over the length of his beard. He was an elderly gentleman, a senior member of the Council of Gondor, and he appeared to have an excellent memory despite his very advanced age. Faramir listened carefully, trying to hold in his laughter when he noticed Aragorn leaning over the table, curiosity pouring out of him in waves. He looked so young in that moment, so full of excitement… Like a ranger on his first trip through the forest. It was equally endearing and satisfying to watch. The court life must have been more boring for him than Faramir had realized. 

“Do you know what is inside?” The king asked, his eyes glued to the lord. Idhor shook his head slowly.    
“No. I only know about its existence because the workers from the guild were gossiping about it at the time of its construction.”    
“Ha!” Aragorn crowed out triumphantly, his gaze flickering to Faramir, before he focused on Idhor again.    
“But,” the lord went on, “there were rumors as to what Denethor could have stashed inside.”    
“Pray tell us,” Faramir prodded, hoping to at least glimpse at the mystery.    
“Remember, those were only rumors… but people talked about how Denethor put everything he considered  _ nasty  _ inside.”    
“Nasty?” Aragorn frowned. “What could Denethor have considered  _ nasty _ enough to lock it up in a secret chamber?” 

For a moment, he appeared to be deep in thought, until his eyes went to Faramir again.    
“What did your father detest, Faramir?”    
_ “Gandalf,” _ the steward deadpanned, “though I doubt he had locked him up in that room, as we have seen with our own eyes.”   
“True. Besides, I don’t think he would have enough skill to lock  _ Gandalf _ up anywhere…”    
“My lords…” Idhor interrupted, bringing their attention back to him. “I think there was talk about some unusual activity in the library at that time also. I believe what can be hidden in there had been taken out from between the old tomes in the far wing.” 

Hearing that, Aragorn grinned, his eyes sparkling. Maybe his suspicions about treasure maps had not been that far off, after all? Faramir glanced at him and shook his head.

-&-

The door remained stubbornly locked even when they brought a few spare sets of keys and tried them all out. The lock wouldn’t budge, and Aragorn only grew more curious as the evening neared.    
“I don’t think we can open it in the traditional way,” Faramir muttered, defeated, inspecting the keyhole yet again. The king nodded, raising, then looked around the room. There were odds and ends strewn around, the remains of Denethor’s life still lingering about because nobody had been in a hurry to clean them up. Books littered the desk, the shelves, some were even lying on the floor near the wide windows. Amongst them, papers and documents were thrown in, wooden boxes with dusty herbs and some other trinkets nobody deigned important enough to take a closer look at. And in the far corner… 

Aragorn grinned, walking around the desk and getting behind a small sofa placed near one of the windows. Behind it, hanging on the wall, there was an axe. It was ornate, clearly meant more as decoration than a real weapon, but it had a pleasant weight to it when the king took it off its hook on the wall and carried it with him to the door. Seeing that, Idhor and Beregond moved a few steps back, dragging Faramir away with them. The steward couldn’t hold his surprised gasp inside when he saw Aragorn swinging the axe at the door, the blade of it landing a few inches off the edge of it. 

The king aimed for the opposite side than the knob, knowing well that the hinges must have been located there. He cut around them with precise blows, soon having the wood rattling with every hit he made as the door started to come loose. 

-&-

Books. Books on the shelves, books on the floor… the whole interior of the little room was filled with books. Small notebooks, huge tomes, some of them with brightly colored covers, some almost falling apart… 

Aragorn stood there, mouth agape, shocked eyes taking the picture in. 

There were cobwebs everywhere, dust lying thick on every surface… he wouldn’t be surprised if they found a skeleton tucked away somewhere, some unfortunate soul that had known too much and-   
“I can’t believe that!” Faramir exclaimed next to him, stepping around the king and into the small chamber. He looked around, surprise evident in his expression. “Why would my father lock  _ books  _ away?”    
“Maybe they broke the law?” Aragorn muttered, confused. He picked one of the nearest tomes up and opened it. It was written in Westron and appeared to be a sort of a romance novel. Encouraged, he flipped the pages, until his eyes found an illustration… oh. 

_ Oh. _

“Faramir… I think I know why Denethor banned those books.” Closing the tome abruptly, Elessar took another one, opening it on a random page. This one was all drawings and no text, and the pictures were  _ very _ detailed. He showed it to Faramir, a wild blush spreading over his prince’s face when he took in the sight. 

“Oh.” 

There were two people on the illustration, both male, and they were completely naked. One of them was kneeling in front of the other, his hands bound behind his back, while the standing one… “I see.” Faramir coughed, glancing around again. 

Beregond was holding one of the books in hand, opened on a random page, and behind him, an apoplectic Idhor stood, one hand fisted in the tunic right over his heart, mouth gaping soundlessly. 

“My good lord!” Aragorn stepped up to them, thankfully realizing the state they were in. “I think we should keep it private for now, at least until we figure out what to do with this…” The king’s gaze flickered to Faramir briefly.  _ “Collection. _ I would like to assure you, however, that most of this fine assembly will find its way back to Minas Tirith’s library.” 

He said it lightly, levelly, but there was a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. Idhor just stood there, staring into space for a moment, before he turned around sharply and walked out. Beregond murmured something about madness and propriety, before he, too, departed, throwing an unsure “good luck” to both, the king and the steward. 

“Now, where were we?” Aragorn grinned, diving between the dusty tomes. Faramir groaned, seeing the glee with which his king started to dig through the books, opening and closing a few of them, sometimes pausing to read a passage or to look closely at a drawing. 

The prince had two choices - either wait idly for him to be finished, or start browsing himself. He chose the latter,mostly to kill the time, but halfway through his excavations, he was forced to pause.

The book he was currently holding in his hand had nothing but drawings in it, and all of them were surprisingly  _ mild. _ There were only male characters in them, but they were all dressed and in decent poses, the art mostly focused on various greenery surrounding them. He was not sure what had irked his father into hiding this book also, but after a moment, the reason became as clear as Anor in the middle of the day. 

“Did you find something interesting?” Aragorn’s voice close to his ear made him jump. He swirled around, almost dropping the album he was holding, before he regained his composure. With a shake of his head, he showed the drawings to the king.    
“I wondered why my father had deemed those indecent, but I realized it’s just because they are all men.”   
“Huh,” the king grunted in consternation, then paged through the book. Faramir only gave an exasperated sigh, one hand coming up to rub along his face.   
“It looks like my father hated men who lay with other men even before I was born... Small consolation."   
“Oh blast him!” Aragorn growled, closing the book abruptly. “Let the dead dragon be, Faramir. We’re taking this one, I think. The drawings are exceptional!” He shook the tome in front of Faramir’s face, then showed him another one he had been already holding. “This one is very inspirational, so I think we should keep it as well. And this,” he said, grabbing a leather-wrapped and very dusty book lying on an upturned crate. “I think with how fat it is, we can find something interesting in there, too.”    
“Interesting?” Faramir asked levelly, to which Aragorn smirked mischievously.    
“Come on. The evening is still young, dear heart!” 

-&-

Sweaty fingers searched him among the crumpled linen, and Aragorn grinned tiredly, trying to roll over from his spot. He failed miserably, which was no surprise - his hands were still tied behind his back. Faramir raised his head and blinked at him confusedly, before he heaved himself up and closer to his king, those same clever fingers undoing the knots easily. It hadn’t been that Aragorn couldn’t have gotten out of them on his own - he had had worse during his time in Anorien. But right now he was resting in a very comfortable spot, found by falling face-first into the soft pillows right after they had been done with their little game. 

The picture that had inspired them had been of a man on his knees, with his hands tied securely behind his back. They had played it out rather well, in Aragorn’s opinion, especially that they lacked a proper rope for that - theirs was short by a whole foot or so. Still, it had left the both of them very satisfied, even if Aragorn turned quite talkative without something to muffle him, but his prince had outright refused to gag him with anything.  _ ‘I will have your voice and your thoughts,’ _ Faramir had said, and because the king had been rather worked up by then, he had agreed readily. 

“Are you alright?” Faramir asked, massaging Aragorn’s wrists gently, rubbing some feeling back into them. Humming contentedly, the king rolled to his side, gazing up at his steward.    
“I am wonderful. How about you?”    
“Happy,” Faramir let out after a moment of consideration.  “I’m surprisingly happy… after this dreadful day, I feared my father’s spirit would come back to haunt me at night,” he added, biting his lip. Aragorn frowned, then reached out, pulling him in. The king’s side was the only right place for the Steward of Gondor, after all, so Aragorn hoped that his sticking to tradition would be appreciated. 

Faramir sighed, making himself comfortable, nuzzling into his king’s neck. It gave Aragorn a moment to think upon what they had done just now, and the incredulity of the situation slowly made him grin madly.    
“You know?” He asked conversationally, combing his fingers through Faramir’s hair. “I’m thinking of all the books and the reason why Denethor locked them up…”    
“Hm?”    
“Do you think old ranger tales are true?” 

To that, Faramir pulled away and squinted at him, half in suspicion, half in confusion.    
“What are you on about?” He asked, frowning.    
“You know that the tales talk about the dead wandering among us however they wish. Do you think Denethor-”   
“Noooo…” Faramir groaned, hiding his face back in Aragorn’s shoulder, to which the king laughed maniacally.    
“What? I am only curious... if he had died... a second time... seeing the king he so feared... being taken by his son!” He said, practically hiccuping. Faramir pulled back and looked thoughtfully at him.    
“If you don’t stop this mad line of thinking right now, I  _ will _ throw those books away.”   
“You wouldn’t!” Aragorn gasped with mock horror, but his eyes were glimmering with happiness.    
“I will! What, do you suggest I need any aid in the bedchamber?”    
“By no means, dear heart,” the king said placatingly, gathering him close with both arms and kissing the top of his head. “I know well that there’s a lot more than silk beneath your breeches. The matter is a lot simpler - you would never throw a book away!” He said with a finality of a king’s order. Faramir hummed, then shivered, when his body finally registered the cool draft circling the room. 

“I’ll let you in on a secret, my king, if you pass me the blanket that is lying next to the bed on the floor.” And he stretched luxuriously, wrapping one arm around Aragorn’s middle when the king turned on his back to look for the blanket blindly with one free hand. It took a moment, but he finally retrieved it. Throwing it haphazardly over them, Aragorn settled down comfortably.    
“Well?” He inquired curiously. “What’s the secret?”    
“I did throw a book out once,” Faramir murmured sleepily.    
“Truly?” He couldn’t really keep the shock out of his voice. The prince hummed quietly.   
“Yes. I quite literally threw it out my window.” Faramir shrugged tiredly, and Aragorn frowned at the ceiling.    
“But… what was it?”    
“My father’s newly made  _ Army’s Proper Conduct. _ It had a ridiculous chapter on romance where the main focus was on exclusively male courtship. I wanted to just tear it out, but disposing of the whole book was easier,” Faramir concluded, then yawned, promptly falling asleep. Aragorn was left staring at the ceiling in surprise, wondering how many more things were there that he didn’t yet know about his dear prince. 


	7. Chapter 7

A dog walked to the doors of Splintered Shield. It was a nice tavern, very warm and with many smiling people that were ready to pet him and feed him scraps. He pawed at the door and whined quietly, asking to be let inside, shivering when the cold air wrapped around him. 

It was snowing again in Minas Tirith, and he didn’t want to stay outside anymore. The chill of winter was something he had always disliked, especially when living on the streets. It was hard to get by on stolen leftovers and dirty water even in summer, but when the world turned white, it got even worse. 

There were footsteps inside the Shield and a moment later, the doors opened. A few men stumbled out and, before the entry closed, he dashed inside quickly. He walked around the flight of stairs, then through the main hall. A few people noticed him and patted him on the head, but he didn’t have time to sit with them. His favorite cook was somewhere in the kitchens, and he wanted to find him. 

Sniffing, he followed the scent of freshly roasted pork down the stairs to the cellar, then turned right and ducked under a table. A few paces forward and a sharp turn and _there!_ Lindor was there, baking something in one of those great ovens that were too hot to get closer to, lest his fur got singed. There was a heavenly smell raising in the air, and he barked happily, getting Lindor’s attention.

The cook smiled, walking closer, and scratched his ear gently, before a sizable bite of meat appeared in front of him.   
“There you are! I thought I wouldn’t see you today!” Lindor said, grinning, then went to fetch a plate. A few moments later, the plate was set on the floor, heaping with meat and rice, and he couldn’t stop himself from digging into it. There were many places he visited on his strolls, but there were no cooks like Lindor, and there was no place like the warm kitchens of Splintered Shield. Well… maybe _one_ place was better. 

When he finished his dinner, he jumped up and licked Lindor’s face thankfully, barked along to the cook’s laughter, then scurried away. He walked back into the main hall and found a place near the bar, right next to a great fireplace. The owner noticed him and frowned, before disappearing behind the counter. A minute later, a bowl of water was set next to the bar. 

He thanked for it with a happy bark and stretched out, letting the warmth seep into his chilled body. It hadn’t always been like that. He had spent many months on the streets, braving cold winds and scorching sun, only to be kicked and pushed away. _Now…_

Now he had a collar - a black and white leather thing with an intricate design. There was a silver pendant hanging from it, the picture of the White Tree of Gondor - the only tree in the city he was not allowed to piss on. But, he was fine with it, too - it grew next to the citadel and he liked to be there. If it meant that he had to behave, he was willing to do that. 

He was on the verge of falling asleep, when a familiar voice broke through the murmur of the crowd.   
“Justice! There you are!” 

It was Faramir, and as he walked closer and crouched down, the dog rolled around and asked silently for some scratches. The prince just laughed quietly, running a hand down his belly, then back up to scratch his fingers gently behind his ears.   
“Come on, Justice. Your master has a cold, is in a dreadful mood, and I am not dealing with him without you.” With gentle prodding, Faramir made him stand up then follow. 

Being a royal dog had its perks - before they walked out, the cook appeared next to the doors, handing them a basket with some roasted pork and mashed potatoes for a late dinner at the citadel. Thus armed, they wandered home. 


	8. Chapter 8

“What is that?” Faramir asked, half-fascinated and half-suspicious, looking down into a finely decorated chest. It was of the right size to house a few swords and a shield, but those were not what awaited inside. “Are those seeds?”    
“Yes!” Aragorn exclaimed happily, running his fingers through nearly black beans inside the chest. The smell that rose from within made Faramir frown and he leaned closer, sniffing like a hound. The king watched him with amusement.    
“Are they… burned?” The steward went on, perplexed.  _ By Eru! Who would burn seeds? That rendered them completely useless!  _

The chest was a gift of good will from the Prince of Harad, and there was an invitation to his soon-to-be coronation attached. Among all the well-wishing and promises of peace between their realms, there was also a mention of a merchant, now apparently a princly advisor, who remembered his long-standing agreement with a certain ranger-turned-king. 

“Why would anyone burn seeds? Whatever plant that is, it won’t grow now!” Faramir pointed out, scandalized, to which Aragorn only grinned rakishly.    
“I can see Denethor didn’t trade with Harad at all,” he said, collecting a handful of beans and closing the chest. “These are coffee beans, and they are not meant to be planted in this state.”    
“What are they for then?” Faramir asked, following his king quickly.    
“Come, and let me show you!” Aragorn grabbed his arm with his one free hand - the beans gripped safely in the other - and steered them out of the throne room. 

Their walk was brief, down two sets of stairs and along a short corridor, and soon, they were standing in the kitchens, to the complete astonishment of the kitchen staff. It was unheard of for the ruler to wander in there and thus, every visit must have certainly been an inspection. Especially paired with the Steward of Gondor. Thankfully, this king was not like the previous rulers at all, certainly not like Denethor, and the staff relaxed somewhat when they spotted a wide smile on Aragorn’s face. 

Their relief was brief, however, for in the next moment, both of their guests turned to one of the big ovens, seeing that it was already stoked and the fire was burning. Aragorn paused by the tables, leaving the seeds on top of one of them, before he went to grab the poker and made some space among the burning logs. When he turned back, the whole kitchen staff was practically standing at attention, forming a neat line right behind the tables.    
“Sire,” one of the girls said, curtsying, looking down shyly. “Can we help you with anything? If you are hungry or thirsty, it will be but a moment to prepare dinner.” 

Aragorn stared at them in surprise, then laughed.    
“Good people, please, do not let us interrupt your work!” He soothed, coming closer. The girl was almost shaking in her boots. “Please, be at ease. If you have some time to help us, then I would ask you to find me a small pot, so I can boil water in it.” 

The staff seemed to suddenly unfreeze, scrambling away in all directions. Aragorn raised his eyebrows in bewilderment, then turned to Faramir, who was trying very hard not to laugh.    
“They are yet unused to a king who takes so many liberties and ignores the protocol as much as you do,” the prince explained, finally allowing himself to grin. The king shrugged.    
“It would be better if they accepted it soon, especially that we have a whole chest of coffee beans to use now,” Aragorn muttered, looking around for a barrel of water he knew should be somewhere close. He was right and, a moment later, he drew a whole bucket from it, intent on carrying it back to the table. The handle of it was ripped from his fingers by a young lad.    
“No, let me do this, sire!” And he bowed low, before going back to the table, bucket in hand. Aragorn sighed, turning around, and froze. 

There were at least ten pots waiting for him, each of them a different size, five of them too big to use. The staff was once again forming a neat line, and Aragorn groaned in exasperation, pinching the bridge of his nose.    
“My good people,” he started, coming closer. “I am sure you have been trained very well, but I assure you there is no need for this measure of… propriety. Please, be at ease and return to your tasks.” It seemed that this time, his words hit home, for the staff stood there only a moment longer, before they returned to their tasks, albeit slowly. 

Faramir watched the exchange with a smile on his face, but he grew curious quickly when Aragorn directed his attention to the seeds again. He watched avidly as the king poured water into one of the pots, then threw the beans in. He carried the whole ensemble to the oven and placed it on the previously prepared space among the glowing charcoal.    
“How do you know the way to prepare it?” He asked, sitting down on a low bench, happy when his king did the same. There was something very lovely in their shared proximity in this unofficial setting. They spent their nights together and sat in the court next to each other, but this was an occurrence so rare that Faramir felt warmth spreading through him that had nothing to do with the fire in the oven.  _ Being in love with your king would do that, _ he thought rakishly, then observed as Aragorn stirred the mixture. 

“When I was still the Chieftain of the Dunedain, we used to buy the beans from travelling merchants.” Aragorn smiled, looking between Faramir and the pot he was stirring from time to time. “We called them  _ black seeds, _ because of their color. Later, when we invited one of the traders for a small feast, he explained that they were beans of a plant native to his land and that the brew prepared from them was called coffee.”    
“Coffee?”    
“Yes, it has something to do with the name of the plant in their language. Anyway… my rangers loved it so much I decided to strike a risky deal with the merchant. It worked out, thankfully, and we were able to barter pelts and skins for beans twice a year. The amount we bought wasn’t much, so we mostly supplied our scouts and warriors with it… And our only scholar, too.”    
“Warriors and scouts I can understand, but why the scholar?” Faramir asked, frowning. Usually, it was the warriors who got the benefits, not scholars sitting among their dusty tomes.    
“Ah, you see, dear heart, the beans have unusual properties. They can help you stay awake if brewed in the right way, so not only our warriors benefited from them, but also our poor Deren, who needed to keep his mind sharp about the lore and many wisdom-filled books he hoarded like a dragon. He was useful, though, so he had certain privileges.” 

Faramir nodded, then another question came to his mind.    
“If the beans can keep you awake, does it mean they give you strength also?”    
“Ah, not necessarily. But that was the misconception, yes, and thus coffee was so sought for that sometimes arguments and fights broke over it. They were sometimes ready to fight me over it, also!” At that, Aragorn laughed. “Of course, the chieftain had some privileges, too,” he went on, his eyes glinting. “My privilege was Halbarad. When he went to collect some beans from the storage room, none dared to stop him, so I had as much coffee as I wanted.” 

The prince laughed at that, too, imagining a gruffy, well-built Halbarad shouldering his way through the crowd to find Aragorn some beans for a strangely smelling brew. This had to be some very good drink indeed! 

Fascinated, he continued to watch for a time, noticing how the color of water changed and turned first deep brown, then almost black. After the water boiled for a longer moment, Aragorn finally deemed it ready and took the pot away, bringing it back to the tables. One of the staff appeared as quickly as she had spotted him, curtsying again and making the king roll his eyes.    
“Can I help you, sire?” She asked, her eyes riveted to the black brew.    
“Can you find us some cups? And honey?”    
And off the girl went, thankfully alone this time, as the rest of the kitchen was busy preparing dinner for the citadel. She came back with a few cups, probably wanting to give her king the choice of the size, then went to fetch honey. 

Once all the ingredients were ready, Aragorn carefully stirred some honey into the black brew, then distributed it evenly into all the cups. He grabbed two, presenting one to Faramir, then waved the staff over to have a taste from the remaining ones. 

The steward sniffed at it suspiciously, before he took a tentative sip. It was still quite hot, but not enough to burn anymore, and the heat of it warmed him up instantly. The taste was unique, strong with an exotic aroma, the underlying sweetness of honey giving it a surprisingly pleasant flavor. Astonished, Faramir realized that it didn’t taste burned at all, rather very strongly roasted. 

He looked up into Aragorn’s eyes, shining happily at him above the rim of his own cup, before the king lowered it.    
“And? How is it?” He asked impatiently, but his eagerness was completely based in showing his lovely prince something new.    
“It’s surprisingly good,” Faramir answered, taking another sip. The taste was so robust that it would take some time to get used to, but he found it even more interesting because of that. Aragorn grinned at him, side-eyeing the kitchen staff. The girl who had helped them with the cups was clearly delighted, but the lad that carried water to the table didn’t look convinced. 

“I think we should go to the coronation of the Prince of Harad,” Aragorn declared, and Faramir squinted at him.    
“To the coronation? I think you mean,  _ to strike another deal on coffee,” _ he said easily, seeing right through his king. Aragorn just laughed, took his hand and steered them out of the kitchens. Faramir smiled, already thinking about the upcoming trip. In times of peace, it would be possible to arrange for the both of them to travel to Harad on a friendly visit, leaving Minas Tirith in Elrond and Imrahil’s capable hands.


End file.
